Sea Change (15 page)

With dismay
John saw that the waves were already kissing at the rock. He was
trapped. As he got closer he realised that the water was only half
a metre or so deep. He did not know how deep it would be round in
the cove, but if he hesitated for much longer he would not even
make it around the corner.

John waded into
the sea, and gasped as the icy water soaked through his jeans. He
knew that if it had been much deeper he would not have been able to
walk far. He could feel strong currents pulling and tugging at his
legs, invisible hands snatching at him. He waded forward, trailing
one hand against the rock of the cliff, ready to grab at the rock
if he felt that he was going to fall, because he was very tired,
desperately tired, and the water pressed on him with great
strength, and he worried that if he fell that he would never get
back up again.

Buffeted by the
waves, John waded around the corner and into the cove step by
laborious step. He stumbled once and nearly fell, but his hand
gripped tight around a nub of rock that protruded from the cliff
and he steadied himself. He followed the curve of the cove round,
the water over his knees now, the level seeming to rise with every
wave that surged in, the foam boiling around him.

"Not far to
go," he muttered to himself, and the words became a mantra, which
he said with every step. Not far to go, push against the sea, move
one leg, tread down firmly, not far to go, now the other leg, god
he was cold, very cold now, not far to go, take another step, not
far to go, one more John, not far to go, and another, not far to
go, not far to go, not far to go. So cold. So cold.

Then there was
a dark wall in front of him, a dark wall of stone that smelt of
seaweed. He had reached the harbour. The water was up around his
waist. John stumbled along the wall, flailing out with his hands,
pushing himself through the water by will power only now, and then
there was cold, rough metal under his hands.

The ladder.
John tightened his hands around it, as if he were never going to
let it go. I don't have the energy to climb it, he thought. All
this way, all this effort, and all I can do is hang here, getting
colder as the sea gets higher, and takes me. Then he was climbing,
not even aware that he had taken the decision to move, putting one
hand over the other, stepping slow steps up, not daring to stop. It
was as if he was hanging there, in the air, watching someone else
climb a ladder.

Then he was
falling over the wall and onto the concrete beneath it, and he lay
there for a moment, not quite believing the solidity beneath him,
the way that the world had stopped moving. He closed his eyes,
thought I could sleep here, just sleep, but he forced himself to
his feet again, and walked shivering up into the village. He
realised how he must look, and hoped that he could get back to
Laura's without anyone seeing him, and asking awkward questions
about how he had got in this state.

As he reached
the bottom of the street that led away from the harbour, John
looked across and up at the north cliff. Up there, he thought.
That's where the solution to all of this lies. Up there, buried in
earth. But what do I do? If I do nothing, then Elias will take
revenge on Laura, or Simon or Sal. If I do get it though, what am I
giving to him, and what will he do with it? He won't keep his
promise to me. It means nothing. Nothing. What do I do, I don't
know enough to know what to do. And then he thought: if you don't
know enough, find out.

And John
realised that when Charles had said trust in those who are your
friends, he had not just been talking about Simon and Sal.

Chapter
Thirteen

John hurried
off towards the flat above the bookshop. If Charles was still
unwell, John would just have to persuade Alan how important it was
that he spoke to him. If he could have a minute with Charles and
tell him everything that had happened, the old man would help. He
knew Elias. He knew the old legends. If anyone could help, it would
be him. Please let Alan agree that I can see him. Please.

Then John heard
shouts behind him, voices that made him warm and cold all at the
same time. He stopped, and waited for Sal and Simon to catch him
up, but he could still taste betrayal, like bitter medicine.

"John," Sal
said. "Wait for us. Please. We were worried, please, stop and at
least talk to us.
Please
."

John turned in
the street, said nothing, because he didn't trust himself to be
able to speak in a voice that wouldn't betray the rush of emotion
he felt. Anger and joy fought to be the first out.

"Didn't want to
leave it like that," Simon said. "Doesn't mean we believe any of
it, mind, but—"

"Shut up, Si,"
Sal said. "Can we not just move on, John? Enjoy the rest of your
time here. And there's something you need to know, it's not safe
for you to be wandering around like this—you’ve got a mobile,
haven’t you? I knew we should have got your number, I meant to—I’d
never have forgiven myself if we hadn’t found you, and anything had
happened. "

John still said
nothing, feeling the joy extinguished, like a candle flame pinched
out and gone. They hadn't changed their minds. They still didn't
believe.

Simon and Sal
got closer, and then Simon stopped and said, “Looks like
something’s happened already."

"John? What
have
you done?"

John shrugged.
"What's it matter? You won't believe it anyway."

"You've been in
the sea, what—how—you got a death wish or something?"

John grinned,
and there was no laughter in it, and Simon stepped back a pace, as
if he were scared.

"I'd love to
stop and chat," John said. "But I have something important to
do."

Simon shook his
head. "Oh, mate." There was no more anger in his voice, only
sadness. "You need to see someone. Doctor, or something."

"John, look,
you're soaked through." Sal now. "You're going to get hypothermia
or something, you need to get dried off, get changed. Where are you
going? Come on, come back with us—"

"Can't." John
said. "Got places to go. Things to do." He grinned at Simon again,
feeling heady and dizzy. "Monsters to meet. You don't believe
anything I've got to say, and that's fine. Just leave me
alone."

"You've got to
get inside,” Simon said. "Greg's after you."

"Greg?" John
said, caught off balance by this. "What the hell does he want with
me?”

"You tell me,"
Simon said. "Whatever you've done, he's mad and he's looking for
you, and if he finds you...."

"But I haven't
done
anything," John said. "I haven't even seen him since I
was with you the other day."

“My guess is
he's seen you," Simon said. "With her." And he nodded at Sal.

"He didn't say
what he wanted," she said. "He wouldn't tell me. He
seemed...different. Angry."

Simon snorted.
"He's always angry."

"No Si, you saw
him, this was different. And he wouldn't listen to me. He always
listens to me Si, you know that, it's how I've saved your skin a
few times. And you know why. But this time, he just kept asking,
where's the boy, where's John."

"The boy?" John
said. "He said the boy?" He thought of Elias's dry whispery
voice.

"Does it matter
what he said?" Simon clapped his hands to his head in frustration.
"Point is, never mind what's going on in your head, John, if Greg
catches up with you, you're in for a kicking. Come back with us.
Please. We can sort this out."

"I can't," John
said. "Thanks, but I can't. I need to go to the bookshop."

Simon stared at
him. "When you fell in the sea, did you bang your head? It’s
night-time, you think the bookshop will be open? And what the
hell—"

"I need to talk
to Charles."

"The old man?
Why?"

John shrugged.
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. So thanks for your
concern—seriously, I appreciate it. I'll watch out. But I've got to
go."

"Well, we're
coming with you," Simon said. "You're not safe on your own."

John smiled,
shook his head. "No way. I'll be lucky if I get in to see him on my
own. He's not well. No way would Alan let me in if we all turn up.
I'll be all right. Seriously. I've got to do this on my own."

"We'll wait at
the door—"

"No." John's
voice was firm. "I'm doing this on my own. As you made clear,
earlier on. Don't worry, I'm used to it." He turned and walked
away, leaving them standing in the street. This time, as he reached
the end, she did call after him.

"John," she
said, her voice imploring.

John didn't
look back, just raised a hand in farewell, and then turned around
the corner. He felt very grown up, like a character in a film. And
he thought, it's not as good as it's made out to be on the
screen.

He kept to the
main streets, taking the long way around to avoid having to use any
of the alleys. After a minute or so he heard footsteps behind him,
and he turned nervously. A middle-aged couple were strolling along,
hand in hand, deep in conversation.

I forgot, he
thought. I forgot that this is still a normal place, full of people
living ordinary lives, people who have no idea what’s going on
around them. If I tried to tell any of them, they'd think I was mad
too. He kept on walking, up through the village, past the fish and
chip shop, past the bus stop where he had first arrived—how long
ago was it, a week? It felt like a lifetime. It felt as the boy who
had stepped off that bus was someone else, someone different. One
of the houses had a window open, and he could hear the faint sound
of classical music drifting out into the night. Everything seems so
normal, he thought. How could all this have happened? If I thought
about it hard enough I could convince myself that I am mad, that I
imagined it all. But John knew that he wasn't, and that he had not,
and that it was real.

There were
lights on above the bookshop, but he hadn't really expected there
not to be. It wasn't as if Charles could go out for the evening.
John just hoped that the old man wasn't too tired, wasn't feeling
too unwell. He knew he would be facing an uphill battle trying to
convince Alan that he was anything other than a boy with an
overactive imagination.

John knocked on
the door and waited, hopping from foot to foot with impatience.
Come on, come on, come on, he muttered.

Nobody came to
the door. John knocked again, and this time he turned away to look
out over the hill while he waited, and as he turned he saw a
shimmer in a net curtain upstairs, a shimmer as if someone had just
let it go. Can't have been Charles, John thought. And Alan would
have answered. Maybe they had a cleaner in, and she wasn't supposed
to open the door. No, not in the evening, not a cleaner. Maybe
someone who does them dinner, or a friend of Alan's. Well, whoever,
they're going to have to open the door. He knocked again, his
knuckles getting sore, but he hit the wood harder all the same, out
of frustration.

He stooped and
opened the letterbox, shouted through.

"Hello? Hello?
It's me, John. Alan? Charles? I need to talk, it's really
important. I'm sorry it's late, but I need your help." John waited
for a moment, and thought he heard a shuffling beyond the door. He
bent and looked through the letterbox this time, but the hallway
was dark and he could not see anything. "Hello? Is someone there?
I'm a friend of Alan and Charles. It's really important. I've got
to speak with them—if they're not here I need to find them. Please,
it's very important, and I'm not going to go away until I know
where I can get hold of them. Please."

Abruptly the
door opened, sending John skittering back into the porch with
surprise. Alan stood there in the doorway, staring out at him.

"Alan," John
said, suddenly embarrassed by the way that he had hammered at the
door. "Sorry—sorry to disturb you. But it's really important, I've
got to speak to Charles."

Alan shook his
head, stood still in the doorway.

"I know it's
difficult, I know he's not well, but he said, he promised me, if I
found out any more about—about this thing we were talking
about—anything else at all, he said that I should come here and
tell him, no matter what, even if it was the middle of the night,
even if he was at—he said even if he wasn't very well."

"No," Alan
said. "No."

"But—" John
trailed off, staring at the man in the doorway. Alan looked back
out, not so much at John but beyond him, as if he were staring out
into space. "Alan? Are you okay? Is everything all right?"

"Yes," Alan
said, and began to close the door, but his hand slipped from the
handle and he stumbled and nearly fell out on to the porch.

"Alan, what's
wrong? Are you ill? Let me call a doctor or something."

Alan steadied
himself, but took some time in doing so. Is he drunk, John thought?
He couldn't smell anything, not like with Uncle Phil who also
appeared to move in slow motion at times, but who usually smelled
of pubs when he did. No, not drunk, it was more like he wasn't
himself, it was like—John swallowed hard, suddenly all the
excitement of his news gone. He was very scared as to what might
have happened to the old man upstairs.

"Alan," he
said. "Look at me."

"Go," Alan
mumbled, staring down at the floor.

"Alan, it's me
John. Alan, I know you're still in there. Fight him, fight
him."

Alan shook his
head, made vague motions towards the door. "No, go. Go."

"Pathetic,"
John said. "Found someone who's not letting you have an easy ride,
aren't you. Alan's smart, you might be using him but he's not like
some dog that you can get to do tricks, is he. He's fighting you
all the way Elias, and all you can do is make him stand there and
mumble. Call yourself a man of power? You can't even make him shut
a bloody door."